divided | ( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

( open post! ) voicetest → luke castellan!

what do:
→ drop a prompt (images work best for me!) or a previously written scenario.
→ completely up to date (but if you throw hoo at me I will have to rely on you and Google).
→ i'm gonna be slow because i'm possessed. (what else is new?)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ he tries to fight her at first, for only a mere second, when she tries to dictate where he's to go. but he finds that he likes how forceful she is, with how her grip is strong in his short cropped hair. he could fight her all day like this if she kept her fingers wrapped tightly there, nails scratching against his scalp. with her cheek pressed to his, luke shifts so his own lips barely graze the edge of her ear. at her words, he chuckles, something deep and low. he dips his head and slides his teeth down the slope of her neck, but never ones does he bite. ]

[ she may be a goddess of war, but luke will not simply comply like a soldier does to a lieutenant's words. if anything, he wants to be rebellious, if only to incur her wrath. and while he's been the target for so much of her wrath, something tells him he doesn't want to bypass this display of la rue rage. ]

[ instead, his hands move to grab her ass and haul her up against him, pelvis to pelvis, his arms swooping beneath her to hold her steady. it removes his mouth from her neck and allows him to look up at her for once. he ends up leaning his shoulders against the wall. he imagines his hair is mussed and his own eyes are a bright blue, face flushed and his neck red and hot. ]

[ luke smirks. his voice is husky, almost lost in how heavy his chest heaves. ] Was that an order or a suggestion?

[ her fingers dig into his scalp, tugging at his hair, as his teeth graze her neck. he's doing this on purpose, deliberately disregarding her command, teasing her with his laugh and his bite that isn't really a bite at all. she actually likes it a little better this way, him not listening to her, having a mind of his own. it makes things interesting, unpredictable, exciting.

he hoists her up and for the first time she's actually looking down at him instead of up, and she can't say she doesn't like the view. she almost expects him to shove her into the wall, but he doesn't, which is actually a little disappointing. where's the anger from before, the intensity? here is the raging inferno that nearly destroyed olympus reduced to only an ember. if he wants her to channel her rage, he'll have to meet her with the same level of intensity.

her legs curl around his hips, and she presses herself hard against him, the heat of him nearly searing her flesh beneath only the thin layers of fabric she wears. she thinks for a moment that it isn't fair that she's already half naked, but she's distracted by the way he looks at her, even just by the way he looks. it occurs to her she's never seen his face this close before and she takes a moment to stare at him, matching his expression with as much mischievousness but also with a hint of curiosity.

absently, she runs her fingers over the long scar under his right eye, almost with a sense of awe. she's no stranger to battle scars — they define her, scattered across her body, old and new testaments to her losses as well as her victories. they hold stories only scars can tell; some she wants to share, while others need no explanation. some she wears with pride, others with shame, though every scar is a victory in the end — proof that you're still alive to fight another battle, whether you win or lose.

she leans in, not to kiss him, just to tug at his lip with her teeth, breathing one word against his mouth. ]

Both.

[ his eyelids flutter when she touches his scar. it's not something many look at with fondness, not with the softness he can see so obvious in her intent gaze. luke usually flinches in a bid to cover up the reminder of his failure and his anger, but he finds that he doesn't want to jerk his face from clarisse's scorching finger. he finds himself taken off-guard, though, and his gaze and mouth softens, pliable beneath hers. ]

[ luke pulls his head back slightly to release his lip from between her teeth. his palm curves to the contours of her ass, a finger of his slipping just beneath the underwear she wears. ] I'll take it under advisement.

[ he's beginning to think he's not against her trying to seduce him anymore, not when she's like fire in his hands and all she does is burn him. she's almost naked to him, wearing his shirt with nothing underneath but a pair of panties that he could just so easily tear off and bare her to him. but with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the weight of her pressed against him, luke knows he can't accomplish what he wants while standing upright in his bathroom. ]

[ with another hoist of strength he didn't know he still longer possessed, he shifts her so she's a little higher than being hip to hip with him. pelvis to pelvis works, but if he's going to move, he needs to not have her distracting him with the friction of her right there. it's all about him gaining the dominance, not her; let her think she's steering the ship, but he's the one who is making it turn left and right and sink beneath the rocky waves of the ocean. pushing himself off the wall, he repeats the action by pressing his face against the column of her neck, his nose nuzzling at the warm skin there. and he begins to move them out of the bathroom he knows like the back of his own hand. rather than spin them so he can toss her onto the bed, he lets himself walk back, teeth grazing her skin lightly and not in the way she so intently wants, and lets himself drop back on the bed with his legs bent at his knees over the side. ]

[ while he kids himself into thinking they're both not going to fight for the wheel to steer, luke surrenders himself by dropping back and pressing a hand firmly against the working muscle of her lower back. ]

[ under normal circumstances, she'd hit him in response to him mouthing off like that, but this is not a normal circumstance. this is the farthest thing from a normal circumstance — and it's not like he's disrespecting her authority, because she doesn't own him and he doesn't have to answer to her. the way he so casually defies her — though isn't defiance second nature to him? — gets her heart racing, and she has to wonder if he can feel it, pounding against her chest like a war drum, and even harder between her legs. ]

You'd better.

[ he hoists her up again, and then they're moving, like only a child of hermes can. she hardly even notices the change of scenery, sinking her nails into the back of his neck and raking them across his skin in retaliation for the lack of pressure on hers. she clings to him as they move, eyes closed, breathing him in. there isn't the familiar scent of the outdoors anymore — he left that life a long time ago — but there's something else, something she can't quite pinpoint but wants more of because it's so distinctly luke.

the position they're in now, her straddled on top of him, isn't something she's unaccustomed to. how many times has she pinned someone like this in a friendly match of sparring? she can't even count on one hand, let alone both. this is a position she's comfortable with, the position that gives her the most control, but the way luke drops back like that, almost preemptively, not waiting for her to press her hands into his chest and shove him back — that makes her think he has a plan, that this position won't last long.

and while he doesn't give her the opportunity to shove him into the bed, he has given her this moment of opportunity, so she's going to take full advantage of it. she's as aggressive in bed as she is with anything else — for her, it offers the heat and the rush of battle but also the added gratification and release only sex can provide. she was always so much calmer when she and chris were dating — he subdued her in the only way he knew how; he became her outlet for all her frustration and he took it willingly, with as much understanding as he could (and when no one else was around, she let him fuck her into the pool table).

of course, luke isn't chris and she knows that. she isn't pretending or deluding herself into thinking otherwise — she was always in control with chris, but luke is a different story entirely. the power structure isn't the same; it's almost balanced, both of them pushing and pulling until eventually the scale evens out.

with a curl of her lip, she leans down on top of him, rolling her hips into his as her hands slide under the fabric of his shirt. her teeth graze his neck just as delicately as he'd been with her, her hands moving up his chest slowly, deftly, her words hot against his ear. ]

Are you going to take that off or do I have rip it off?

[ with a grip like hers and the strength of an army, it's certainly not an empty threat. ]

[ all luke wears is a dark t-shirt and jeans. he looks as though he's glancing down at himself, but he's merely dragging his eyes from the top of her torso to the bottom. his shirt exposes her to him, but not in the way he longs for. his own hips move in accordance to her, like a ship does when being tossed about by waves. in a way, he hopes a roll of his own hips will somehow, magically, make that shirt disappear. ]

[ but his head slams down against his sheets when she's leaning, pushing him to comply and bend to her will. but it's not as though he's going to complain — he grins, arching his own neck so she can have more field to graze. his hands climb the notches of her back, pulling the shirt up, not up and off. his nails scrape against the ladder of her spine, not hard enough to cut flesh, but hopefully enough to pull something out of her again. ]

Was never a big fan of this shirt.

[ he doesn't make a move to release his grip from her back and pull his own shirt up and off, nor does he gesture for her to use her hands and make war with the fabric. he's as neutral as he can be, waiting to see if clarisse will comply with either of her presented options or simply leave him to feel the coarseness of the fabric over the softness of her skin. ]

[ his heart pounds in the cage of his ribs. he knows she'd be able to feel it, especially if her teeth happen to graze over the pipeline of his pulse. he wonders if she likes it, the pounding of his heart, where luke's voice is husky and warm and doesn't hiccup at the mere roll of her hips. his hands slide back down her lower back before ascending once again, gripping the shirt she wears, pulling it up to no avail — it's not as though he can really see or feel her with his jeans as a barrier. and it's beginning to frustrate him, how she's so exposed and he's so covered, when, before, he much preferred it to be this way. ]

[ his hands against her back, nails dragging down her spine, are just enough to make her breath hitch, catching in the back of her throat, and she pulls away from his neck to return that shit-eating grin of his. he's a fast learner, like all hermes kids seem to be, but he's bolder, more aggressive than chris ever was. chris was soft and timid, and clarisse had to coax him into biting and scratching and fucking her hard into the wall. he was always more worried about hurting her, despite the fact that he'd seen her hold her own numerous times in battle and slay a drakon without so much as blinking an eye. sure, she appreciated the concern sometimes, but other times it was exhausting, suffocating.

she appreciates the lack of concern luke has more, his willingness to follow her lead, to counter every one of her moves with his own, as if they're choreographing a new dance one step at a time. she thinks she likes this one a lot better than the old one. ]

I was hoping you'd say that.

[ just as promised, or threatened — not that it matters either way — she balls her fists into his shirt and pulls, the cotton fabric no match for the strength of ares. it rips easily in a jagged line, finally exposing his chest, and clarisse's lips curl into a smirk, her eyes wild with pride. she'd forgotten how built he was, and for a moment she's lost just staring at him, the contours of his biceps, the hardworked definition of his abdomen.

she runs her hands over his chest, spreading the torn fabric over his shoulders, but not removing it entirely. she'll let him take care of the rest while she sits back on her knees, staring him down and not once taking her eyes off him as she carefully undoes the buttons of his shirt on her shoulders at an agonizingly slow speed. she wants him to watch her, unbuttoning one after the other with a slight roll of her hips accompanying each button undone. ]

[ luke's breath gets caught up within a tangle in his throat when she rips his shirt in two. it shouldn't surprise him, this daughter of ares, that she's fully capable of breaking a tightly threaded thing apart as if it were wet and weak paper. as if to show her how much he likes it — her actions, not his shirt — he moves his hips unconsciously, but finds it painfully offensive that he's still wearing his thick jeans and isn't able to make her gasp in reply to how hard he already is. ]

[ he moves to push his now ripped in half shirt off his shoulders, settling all his weight onto his elbows, but only gets as far as his biceps before he finds himself distracted. the severity of the shape his mouth forms into a smirk slackens as his eyes seem to dry of all the mirth he'd been feeling. it's unsettling to him — like being smacked in the face with a large, heavy wave — of how hot he finds clarisse in his button-up shirt. with each roll of her hips, he finds his breath catch somewhere in his throat, a butterfly flutters somewhere in his chest and low in his stomach, and he wishes to move his own pelvis in reply, but she's such a heavy force to be reckoned with that he can hardly find the strength to fight back. ]

[ his hands move to her hips before sliding to her back in a bid to help pull himself up. his hands grip the hard muscle of her body for purchase, nails digging in, trying to find the chips within her that he can hold onto. pressing his face to the flesh above her breast, luke's teeth bite lightly at the skin as he mouth opens to suck there. he growls, but finds half of his roar is lost within his throat: ] You're a tease.

[ clarisse is gloating and she knows it. the sway of her hips in time with the last button is her own personal victory, and for now, nothing can wipe the proud smirk off her face, not even the momentary twitch of her abdomen when luke digs his nails into her skin, his teeth grazing at a much more sensitive part of her body. she finds a hand in his hair again, kneading at his scalp and pressing him closer. with the buttons undone, the shirt falls loosely off one shoulder with just a shrug.

she laughs, low and breathy, and almost forgets what she was going to say. he's being very distracting and it shouldn't be fair that him growling at her should be that hot. it speaks to the carnal part of her and she almost growls back, but it gets mangled in her throat, twisting into something that's almost a moan but not quite. luke can be good with his mouth when he wants to be. ]

I know.

[ she manages to focus long enough to remember that luke is still in his jeans, and those really need to go. there's too much material between them, too much getting in the way — and despite the fact that she could just dry hump him into submission, that's really no fun. maybe it's fun when you're teenagers and trying not to get caught and too scared to take everything off but still so desperate — but that isn't them or this and they've both been with people before, both know what it's like to feel someone's whole body beneath you, tensing and quivering beneath someone's touch.

her free hand reaches down toward the waistline of his jeans, fumbling one-handedly with the button and not having very much luck. she could bring her other hand down to help, but she likes it better in his hair, tugging at his hair like reigns. ]

Am I going to have to do all the undressing or are you going to help me?

[ luke lifts his shoulders, but the shrug is lost in the way his head dips and his shoulder-blades push against his flesh as he kisses his way across the expanse of collarbones now open to him. he thinks to lean back and watch the show, the revealing of herself to him, but luke is greedy and impatient and finds himself much preferring the tactile contact than one of him gazing upon her helplessly. ]

You're going to have to get off me if you expect me to help. [ or be of any use. while clarisse very much thinks dry humping is of the past, luke really doesn't care as long as she keeps grinding herself against him. if he bothers to move, he'll be able to flatten their chests together and feel her heart beat right beside his, rather than by his cheek or beneath his hungry mouth. he bucks his own hips, but finds the position a little difficult in doing so. she can grind against him all she likes, but he has to lie there and take it, hardly able to strike back as though this were a spar of swords. she's sitting on him, caging him in, and luke wants her to lift herself up and bare some of the weight,but he finds it hard pressed against his upper thighs. it's then he realises he'd like to be able to feel his effect on her, rather than simply hear it, but his hands can't free themselves of their hard grip on her hips and go exploring; he finds himself liking gripping onto the bone there. ]

[ reluctantly, though, he removes one hand grudgingly from her hip, sliding it down her thigh, before dropping it to his own pants and his joins hers with looping the button out of the hole. he's removed his face from her collarbones, his eyes glancing down at where their hands are. he thinks to look up at her, but luke has a feeling that he'll lose this little game they've found themselves playing if he does so. ] Still gonna have to get off.

[ clarisse pushes herself up onto her knees instead of leaning back on them, giving luke a little room to breathe before her hand dives downward, shoving past coarse fabric and elastic into coarse hair and luke. she squeezes hard, but that's all she does before she removes her hand and grinds down into him one more time, grinning wickedly. if he thinks this isn't going to her head, he's dead wrong. ]

I think that can be arranged.

[ she wanted to say something like you can get me off, but she settles for that instead. she's never been a huge fan of dirty talk, anyway; she doesn't want to end up sounding like an amateur porn star. she has more dignity than that.

she pulls his face to meet hers, her lips crashing into his once again, though not as violently as before, and she doesn't break it, doesn't breathe, until she's dragging her teeth across his bottom lip as she pushes herself off of him — only this time she actually removes herself from his lap fully, crawling over him to splay herself on his bed. his shirt is still half hanging onto her, loose fitting on her arms, but she likes it that way. she wants to keep some part of it on her, so when she returns it to him it won't be his anymore, but his with her scent on it, of pine and sweat and sex. ]

Come on, Castellan, it's not like we have all day.

[ except they do, and she could do this all night. she beckons him with a wave of her fingers, as if she's curling them around some invisible rope that's attached to him which will pull him back over to her. ]

[ luke finds himself leaning back on his hands, breathing hard, face flushed and chest red. he thinks he's been stunned, too caught up within the tornado of clarisse la rue — and a part of him doesn't give a shit if she throws him around like a rag doll and does whatever the hell she wants to him as long as she continues to keep her fingers gripped so tightly in his hair. but the sensation is lost and luke feels as cold as the ocean. she crooks her finger towards him, but it only draws a slow forming smile from him. his eyes rest appreciatively on how his shirt looks on her, as red as her rage and almost like that of his neck. ] Fine. [ he smirks and begins to bounce himself off of the bed. with his back to her, he sheds himself of his shirt, dropping what is now a victim of war to the floor. he turns so he can face her; with his head dipped slightly, he glances at her, then, through his lashes, his eyes tracing up and down her figure, from her long, powerful legs, up that torso of hers that contains so much rage. ]

[ his button may already be undone, but luke feels his mouth curve upward as he places his hands on his hips, loops his fingers into the waistband, and pulls his jeans down purposefully slow. she says they don't have all day, but doesn't she know they could have eternity if they wanted? a part of luke wants that — eternity of warmth, of being caught up in a whirlwind that bites and snaps and slaps at him, and pulls him from deep within the tartarus pit of self-pity and self-loathing he had found himself in. underneath his jeans he dons dark boxer briefs, pulled tight across his hips — and it's obvious to her naked eye what kind of a hard bargain she seems to drive. ]

[ but luke doesn't pull them down, despite hooking his fingers into the waistband teasingly. he takes the step he needs to drop his knee onto the bed, before he's crawling up it slowly, as if he's a panther and she's now his prey. ] You got somewhere to be, La Rue? [ underneath me, he thinks, even though he's certain he'll be on his back while she sits upon him as if she is a throne and he is merely nothing but wood. ]

[ from her position on the bed, she can see nearly all of him standing there, watching his shoulder blades work as he sheds himself of the remains of the shirt she had so inspiredly tore in half. it's almost a religious experience, watching him at the foot of the bed, taking in every detail of him she can — the curve of his mouth, familiar and tempting; his broad shoulders that once carried so much weight she isn't sure how he bore it alone; his fingers, impossibly long digits that hold in them so much power and persuasion; his hips she wishes she could reach, to grab him and pull him into her, offer him the release he so clearly needs.

a thousand butterflies fill her torso, a wave of heat and pleasure washing over her just from looking at him. her leg shifts slightly, bending her knee just so that she can attempt to calm the beating of her heart between her legs. he could just stand there and she could give him a show, press her fingers hard between her legs and moan his name for him until her whole body quivers and she's reduced to the mess he made of her — if he'd taken any longer returning to the bed, she might have. ]

I will if you don't get over here.

[ she's not actually threatening to leave, but he is too far away and she needs the weight of him on top of her, needs to leave the mark of clarisse la rue on his back when he fucks her and she claws at him for more. despite being in his domain, she will claim his territory as her own and the marks she gives him will be reminders of that. this will be her victory but she will share with him its glory. ]

Uh huh. [ he doesn't believe her — and it's quite obvious in his tone. he does think of taking his time, merely perching himself at the edge of his bed to see how patient the ever so impatient clarisse la rue is. is she as sharp as she is on the battlefield? he thinks so, having expected someone soft and pliable to wait for him in his bed. he wonders if she'd give him a show, spread her legs further apart, reveal even more of herself to him if he had kept her waiting and had any sort of control over his own impatience. if he did, he knows he couldn't simply stand there, still as a statue and just as unmoving; luke's no stranger to his own hand, but he'd much prefer clarisse's. her fingers are such powerful weapons, after all. she'd used them to pull him into her little vicious web with the way she'd pulled at his shirt on her lithe body. it'd been her to unbutton his shirt, not him, in a bid to bare herself to him in a way that he thinks should've won her the battle. ]

[ luke crawls up the bed at the pace of a snail, his eyes on hers, smile still pressed against his face. when he reaches where her toes are, luke thinks to simply climb over her and straddle her, to press himself against her and grind himself into her, but his arm comes out to reach for her leg, sliding his palm from the back of her ankle right up to where her knee bends. his other hand remains pressed hard against the bed between her legs. he shifts with the gradual sliding of his hand, shuffling on the bed, pressing to settle himself not quite at the vertex of her legs. and he finds himself bending, arm pulling her leg up and over his shoulder as he nuzzles his nose into the soft, meaty flesh of her inner thigh. ]

[ he stretches out gradually, back arched as he moves his way from the bend of her knee and up further until his nose brushes the line of her underwear. he ensures to keep it there, brushing, but not quite pushing, in a teasing touch like that of the fluttering butterflies that press hard and wild against his lower abdomen. it'd be so easy to have her come undone with just his mouth — the one thing she seemed to loathe back when they were two people pressed against the world, where riling her up was the best way to get off — but he thinks of her earlier request — demand — and opens his mouth wide against the skin, sucking it in, clamping his teeth gentle down on it, and letting it pop from his mouth before he soothes it over with his tongue and begins it all over again. ]

[ clarisse had about half a mind to just sit up and meet luke halfway, shoving him back into the sheets as he denied her before, but she remains patient, curious, a respite before the battle that is yet to come. the war she wages with luke for control is at a standstill, both of them refusing to back down — clarisse may not be actively asserting herself, but she has been dictating the rules and direction of this little encounter since the beginning, silently or otherwise.

as luke's hand moves up her leg, she thinks it's a good thing she decided to wear a dress today. they aren't her normal standard of beauty; they come with so much other pressure to look beautiful — makeup, accessories, shaving — but she'd glad she chose today, of all days, to uphold the societal standard. silena never pressured her or tried to convince her that her natural body hair wasn't beautiful, but even clarisse, one of the boys, understands that sometimes it's okay to be a girl, and the amount of hair on her legs doesn't change who she is.

today, her legs are smooth, though she has a feeling luke wouldn't really care either way. he expects her to be one of the boys, hard and tough with none of the feminine qualities her genetics have gifted her. but today she is strikingly feminine, all her roughness concealed behind smooth legs and full breasts.

his breath on her thigh makes her inhale sharply, but she grins down at him approvingly, the arch of her hips when his nose brushes so close enough to tell him, yes, keep doing that. she doesn't realize she isn't breathing until something escapes her mouth that sounds almost like a whimper, the muscles in her thigh tensing when he bites her. she throws her head back, squeezing her eyes shut, and she raises a hand to her mouth to bite down hard on her forefinger, her other hand clenching hard at the sheets next to her. ]

[ it's a pity luke doesn't have snakes for hair, or else he'd continue what he was doing, perhaps cover her entire leg with the markings of his teeth. he'd always noticed clarisse was a girl — one who prided herself in being more masculine than feminine, never afraid to get down and dirty with the boys. dirt would cake beneath her fingernails and she'd scrape and scar her knees proudly. but luke had always known that, despite all her sharpness and desire to be as blunt as a boy, she was always as curvaceous and soft as a girl beneath. ]

[ he smirks against her skin when he hears that whimper escape her. with one last bite and soothe over with his tongue, luke pulls himself away from her thigh, despite wanting to simply trail bites along the path that'll lead him to something sweeter. but if he stays between her legs, he won't be able to see her — and one of luke's favourite thing is to watch her. when she spars, when she climbs the lava wall, when she's simply commanding the attention of her house by her mere presence — clarisse had always been something of a beacon to him, his eyes always trailing after her in some way. today's no different, even though there's no wall to climb and ugly, bright orange shirt to hide the way her powerful shoulder-blades and the muscles in her back move. ]

[ pulling himself back onto his knees, his hair isn't as mussed as it would be if her fingers were still in there. he breathes hard as his eyes travel from the hard, strong muscles of her abdomen and up the valley between her breasts. luke's never been a particularly good swimmer — even when fighting percy on the surfboard of a wave, he hadn't been able to gain his bearings as well as he can in the air or on the battlefield — but he figures it's about time he tries out his strokes against clarisse. she has always been like water to him, able to be caught in between his hands, but she escapes through the open seams. he wonders if he'll be able to trap her now, or if she'll simply escape him again. stretching out like a cat, he places his hands on either side of her torso, and sweeps into her, mouth diving for hers with a bite to his kiss and his hips crashing into hers like that of a wave against rocks. ]

[ clarisse would have been more than happy to let luke suck and bite and massage her thigh with his mouth until she couldn't take it anymore, unraveling at the seams like she had so easily done with his shirt before. with every flick of his tongue and every scrape of his teeth, she can feel herself coming undone, one sensation at a time, and she wonders if this is what it feels like when he wills locks open with only his hand.

she stares at him, almost in a daze, when he returns to his knees, and a part of her questions if this is even real — for a moment, she feels the overwhelming sense of being trapped in the labyrinth again, never quite knowing the difference between what was real and what the labyrinth wanted you to think was real. chris was the realest thing she had when she could no longer trust her own mind — after he had already lost his.

now, luke is her sense of reality as much as he is the thing she keeps finding herself lost in. he is a maze of anger and passion and wit, but there is so much about him she has yet to find, always coming to the same dead ends again and again and again. perhaps it's because she finds herself taking a new route through the labyrinth of luke castellan, that she finds herself more lost than ever, that she needs him to guide her — and shouldn't that be an easy job for the son of the god of travelers? he's already guided her here, through the murky depths of the past, or maybe she just found herself here, a secret entrance she never knew existed, to a man she never knew could exist — all he had to do was take her hand.

her hands come to meet him as he crashes into her and she drops back into the sheets, dragging her nails across his neck and over his back to match the ferocity of his biting kiss. her legs move of their own accord, drawing themselves closer to her abdomen and locking him between her legs while her hips rock up into him. she gives a little grunt, and tries to focus on words, something witty like is that all you've got? but all she can manage between biting at his lips and pulling his hair, burying her face in his neck and clinging to him for all dear life so she doesn't lose herself entirely in him, is: ]

Gods, Luke...

[ when she's not taking possession of his mouth, it's his neck — luke finds his nose pressed hard against her scalp as he breathes heavily, finding his heart dancing to an incredibly violent rhythm. it'll pop out of his chest if they keep it up, if he allows her to possess him much like a titan — but luke doesn't doubt that he won't mind this possession, where he had once deteriorated into a skeleton of his former self, he has a feeling that whether he's above or beneath or in clarisse that he'll somehow find himself soaring higher than the heavens zeus resides in. isn't the point of a titan to possess power? they were the first, the gods the second, and the demigods the third — clarisse may be less powerful than the god she descends from, but she has prowess when dealing with the warfare of affection. luke's lost, but he has an inkling that he's finally been found. ]

[ one of his hands remains flat on the bed, fingers gripping the sheets for purchase, while his other grapples at her shoulder; his fingers massage into her flesh just as his hips continue to rock into hers. he'd meant to take it slow, agonisingly enough to make her plead for mercy, but he finds himself within the throes of another war where his hips move of their own accord as he tries to thrust into clarisse despite the barriers preventing him from doing so. luke grunts in reply, not quite hearing her, rather intent on listening to her breathing and the little sounds that a goddess of war shouldn't even be capable of making. she is not meant to be soft or pliable within his hands, and while the nails on his back suggest otherwise, she lets him lay on top of her when a child of war would think it a slap to the face. ]

[ moving the hand from her shoulder, he skims it down her side and presses the heel of his palm hard against the bone of her hip. it lingers there, the movement of his own jarring what he wants to do, if he can even think the thoughts through. dragging his face down hers, he tries to steal her mouth again with an open kiss. he doesn't understand why she's hiding within the safety of his neck. ]

[ for a moment, she is back at camp half-blood — in the big house, in her cabin, in his cabin when no one else was around — and her chest tightens with a sense of urgency, her legs moving in circular motions against his sides, her fingers clawing desperately at his back, trying to pull him down harder, harder — and she tries to imagine what it would have been like if they were both still at camp, if they had seen in each other then what they see in each other now. would it have been this desperate, this good?

his mouth drags her from out of the crook of his neck, though not out of her thoughts, not entirely. she's sure he can taste the familiar scents of camp on her skin and on her lips — the heavy scent of pine and dirt, wood and smoke, as if she lives and breathes and sweats the essence of camp half-blood, the essence that has shaped them both into who they are now in some way or another. it was home for both of them once, a home that kept them both safe, though not necessarily from each other. luke, with all his anger and resentment for the gods, and clarisse with her pride and passion, always clashing and butting heads be it with weapons or wit, on and off the field of battle. she knows luke no longer considers it home and she won't try to convince him otherwise — it's a life better left behind him — but she also knows the forsaken can be unforsaken, and all prodigal sons can one day return home.

she moves her hand away from his neck to join forces with the other on his back, spreading her palms wide against his sides as she slides them over tense, hardened muscle, and then just under the elastic of his underwear. it stretches with little resistance from the power of her fingers and she presses them down hard over the contours of his ass, bringing the unnecessary layer of fabric down with them. ]

[ luke groans, deep within his throat — the rumble of a dragon, note quite a drakon; although, he wonders if he is like the serpent that she had slain in her bid to exact revenge for a misgiving dealt by his hand. he feels himself splitting in half as her strong hips meet his, spinning him into a fire to forge and mold him into the strongest and, yet, weakest blade her nimble fingers could handle. one of his hands comes to slide down her leg and pull her at the bend of her knee, but it's useless, for he is just as guarded as she is. he wants to possess her in a way that he is finding she is of him; he's not a child of ares, but he finds himself viciously fighting this battle as if he were, with all the sharpness he can muster: with his short, blunt fingernails and his deadly canines and sharp, out-of-time thrusts. those long fingers of his slip beneath the waistband of her underwear, but they don't dive further to explore, not like how he would with the woods or during a game of capture the flag, seeking out the enemy behind every bush and tree trunk. ]

[ but he finds that he is just as he had always been. he had always fought her with sharp words and sharp blades held by fingers with weaker nails, unlike hers that have always cut like that of a dragon claw. but he remembers how she would always unsaddle him somehow, by making him pause and rethink his decision, change the tactic in which he approached stealing the flag or kicking her feet from out under her. luke doesn't like the reminder of the past. camp half-blood remains shrouded in shadows and buried deep within the back of his mind. even when he thought himself rid of it, she would come, smelling of pine and of the smoke of lava and the campfires. he'd always acted so arrogantly in a bid to earn himself a punch from clarisse; as a personification of camp half-blood, so proud and passionate in her ugly, bright orange shirt she no longer wore, had made luke's blood bubble in a different way to now. she'd been a walking reminder of all the disappointment he had elicited from those who once knew him — no one would ever look upon him with familiarity if they were to see him. he is simply a betrayer, a demigod who had gone against the grain and his own kind. but clarisse doesn't look at him now with that in her gaze — he finds that she's not looking at him at all. ]

[ it's clear to him she enjoys his sharpness of his teeth to the softness of his lips, but luke finds it slightly disheartening, something dark swooping within his heated gut, that she doesn't seem to meet him. she diverts to his neck or his collarbone, but only ever briefly does she linger on the most powerful weapon he owns. he tries to still his hips, but he finds that they are as uncontrollable as that of a dragon waiting to be tamed by his own hand. he lifts his head, needing to focus his eyes as he tries to capture her busy gaze. ] You afraid I'm going to bite?

[ his voice pulls her out of the depths of her thoughts, jolts her back to reality where she is here with him, and not at camp, with someone who could have been him or wasn't him or wasn't anyone at all. she finds herself caught in his gaze once again, caught in the snare of his impossibly blue eyes — his eyes that observe and calculate everything around him as if it were a game of chess, trying to play every move to his advantage — but so close, in the heat of everything, all she sees is another set of familiar blue eyes, kinder and more gentle, and rarely with an unexpected passion.

she shouldn't be thinking about chris at a time like this and she knows it. she tries to rid herself of his image in her head, bucking her hips hard against luke's, finally pushing his underwear down far enough that she can feel him, even through the last restrictive layer of clothing she has on. then, with renewed vigor and a final bid to eject chris and all thoughts of camp half-blood from her mind, she snaps her teeth at him, her nails digging into his back like claws as she drags them firmly over the expanse of skin, leaving varying degrees of red marks etched there by her hand. ]

I'm afraid — [ she says, her voice low and rumbling like a vast army approaching from a distance, only discernible by the way the earth shakes under the march of thousands. her eyes flicker with the same mischievous glint from before, her lips curling into his as she drags him down with her hands tight in his hair again ] — you won't bite hard enough.

[ by which she really means, fuck me until i can't see straight and the only name on my lips is yours. she could easily turn the tables, flip their positions and fuck him into his own sheets with his shirt still hanging on her arms, but she wants to save that for another time, give him the satisfaction of having her before she shows her true colors and rides him like a general into battle. she's holding back on purpose, teasing him with what he thinks he can have, and doing the opposite of what he expects her to do. ]

[ sometimes luke wonders if clarisse is too sharp. he has cut and scarred himself on that of a dragon claw — is she no different? he has been bruised and broken by her hand, even though the markings have faded with time unlike that of a dragon. perhaps she's more drakon than dragon, capable of breathing fire, but never quite gifted in charring him. ]

[ a part of luke knows exactly what it is she wants — and he wants to give it to her, to plunge into her until she combusts, dissipates beneath his hands like that of the spark he had killed within himself — but luke finds he doesn't want to simply be a mere fuck she'll forget in the theatre of her memories. heroes are remembered — the ones worth remembering are held upon pedestals, and those who are beneath them strive to be them. luke knows he's no hero, no matter what percy might have said on his deathbed, but he finds he wants to strive for a place within clarisse's memory where heroes are stored and remembered. he will fade, one day, from the lives he had touched and destroyed, but unlike the marking of the dragon that will forever remind him of his successes and failures and what he had gained and lost, they will never look upon their own flesh and think luke. even the redness on her thigh he had sucked into being will fade with time. ]

[ clarisse is sharp and hard where luke has now turned soft and blunt, and he finds that his fingers only continue to stay hooked in her underwear, knuckle pressed hard against her hip, with him pressing now right against her underwear. all he has to do is rip it from her like she had his shirt and his sense of security — no one can touch him within his fortress, he had thought, not until clarisse la rue, but he doesn't do as he so desires. he continues to press his pelvis into hers, feeling himself spark like a fire where she grinds; it should be enough to make him comply and lose control, but luke possesses a willpower that is only unique to him, and while his eyes roll and he groans low and deep within his own throat, he persists on. one hand leaves her underwear to try and burrow beneath her back, the ascent up her spine causing him to stretch and extend above her. for once, his touch lacks that of his claws; blunt finderpads against a canvas waiting to be painted red. when he reaches the middle of her shouder-blades, he gives her a push, pressing hard against the notches of her spine there. ] Then c'mere.

[ she drags her mouth against his, bites at his lip, pulling the bottom in a bid to rip him apart as if he is meat dangling in front of her, but luke finds she doesn't simply kiss him. kissing is more intimate than what they're doing now — and he finds himself longing for it, the intimacy, the belonging, the acceptance, the gift that he deserves as much. ]

[ clarisse can already start to feel herself unwind, losing focus on what's happening and how it's happening — just that it is. with every sway of their hips together, she finds herself more and more lost in luke castellan. the sounds he's making and the words he speaks sound distant, but she tries to pull herself back to the reality of his hand against her back. unconsciously, she arches into him, making it easier for him to roam and easier for her to press up into him. her breath hitches, and she kisses him desperately to muffle the moan that almost escapes her lips. ]

You know, it's generally easier to fuck someone who isn't still wearing underwear.

[ she keeps one hand in his hair, keeping his lips drawn to hers, and tries to worm herself out of her underwear with one hand, but it's proving exceedingly difficult, especially with him in between her legs like that. ]

Really should've been the first thing to go.

[ and she isn't quite sure why she's being so talkative now, but something about the heat of the moment gets her mouth going. she tries to not break her kisses, instead kissing the words directly onto his lips. ]

Edited (wow spelling) 2014-04-13 04:11 (UTC)

[ is that what this is? he wants to ask her, for a fuck implies it's just that — a fuck; a good, clean, hard fuck. no ties, no emotions — nothing but war between two people. it doesn't matter if both walk away with injuries; it's not as though she'll come back and ensure the broken bones she's left him with are healing properly. she doesn't care — and that much is clear. if luke hadn't been so focused on the moan that rumbles against his chest from hers, he'd wonder who it is she's seeing above her, rocking into her. ]

[ but now that he has what he wants, luke presses his mouth harder against hers, licking at her teeth and the roof of it, as his hand drops from her back. he lifts his hips up from hers and presses the heel of his hand right against her sex in a bid to shut up her complaints. and considering he has gotten her mouth, despite her not understanding or comprehending what he's been saying, he tries to keep her lips locked to his; he tries to soften the kiss with less teeth, opening his mouth beneath hers in a bid to breathe her in and breathe himself into her. ]

[ he shifts his weight so both of his hands can be free from holding him up. his back muscles tense beneath the strength he pulls from, and he hooks his fingers in the waistband of her underwear. he thinks to leave them there again, perhaps get her hopes up, but she has given him the one thing he had wanted, even if he hadn't so much as directly commanded it as she had, and he thinks it only fair he pulls them down as far as he can bend his own back without separating his mouth from hers. ]

Gotta do all the work, as per normal. [ he breathes it into her mouth, his own teeth coming to gently pull at her bottom lip as he spares a quick glance down between their bodies. his hands come back to her hips, but one escapes and presses its way, heel of his palm against her lower back, in a bid to keep her close to him. his mouth captures hers once again, not too keen on separating them, and he presses his hard cock against her entrance, but doesn't thrust himself into her. ]

[ honestly, it's better he didn't ask. clarisse is rarely truly intimate with people — even with chris, it wasn't the sex that was really all that intimate; it was everything before and after: the holding hands, the cuddling, the quiet makeout sessions in quiet places where no one could hear them laughing with every kiss and flutter of eyelashes. she isn't really sure she knows how to be soft the way he wants her to be during sex; it's always been such a power play for her, and that in and of itself is intimate in its own way, just not the way he wants it to be. she would've found it insulting if he'd accused this of being nothing and that would've been the end of it, regardless of how close they both are.

as it is, she finds herself gasping into his mouth as the heel of his hand presses down between her legs, causing the muscles in her thighs to tense involuntarily. if she had anymore complaints, they're completely lost on his lips, her words and her breath stolen away by the only person she is finding that truly knows how. had chris ever made her feel this breathless, at such a loss for words? she can't even seem to remember, not with luke's hands sliding down her legs, pulling her underwear with them.

she doesn't even have it in her to say something witty, or even attempt to, because as soon as she moves to open her mouth against his, he claims it once again, and all she can manage is a breathy inhale as she's finally able to feel all of him against her. she smooths the hair against the base of luke's neck, as if petting him will coerce him into her as she whispers something that sounds like a promise against his lips. ]

Next time, you won't have to.

[ next time, she says, and it's almost enough to make him thrust his hips into hers and possess her the way he wants to. but luke refrains, restraining himself; his hips rock slightly, almost out of his control, but luke's held on for too long now to simply let go. the hand at her back tries to claw and dig into the muscle there for purchase, but his nails only scratch hard at her back. ]

[ he smirks against her mouth. he finds the loud tenor of his voice lost somewhere within his throat when his breath hitches, almost choking him. ] Why wait? How about now? [ he allows himself to bite her lip then, following her demand from earlier. he wants to drop his head to her shoulder, but he's fought so hard for her mouth that he leaves it for another time — next time, in her own words. he keeps his hips as still as possible, but he finds them shift ever so slightly. the tip of his nose presses hard against hers, a mirror of his pelvis against her own — but not quite as hard, though — as he releases her mouth, if only briefly. ] Wanna tell me what you want?

[ she'd been so vocal before ... and as if to emphasis his eagerness to comply, he mirrors one of her earlier moves, taking her bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it ever so slowly. ]

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